Destruction and Reformation
by Freestyle 763
Summary: There wasn't always the Rule of Two-one thousand years before the Clone Wars the Sith were a legion known as the Brotherhood of Darkness and the Jedi weren't dogs of Politicians, but the Army of Light. Three people forever changing the game in their own way. Destruction and reformation. Rated M, just in case. Discontinued
1. Chapter 1

The Rule Of Two didn't always exist. Before the Rule of Two was mandated, the Sith were a legion-known as the Brotherhood of Darkness, all under the command of charismatic and powerful leader Skere Kaan.

Under his rule 'rule of the strong' everyone one was equal in the Brotherhood of Darkness-though Kaan had to cede his power to rivals Qordis and Kopecz, it lead to relentless infighting. no one carried the title of Darth, and there was a Council of Dark Lords-all equal, in name at least. But, in truth many of these Dark Lords were weak.

Among the many unfortunate things amidst this order this was just two of the many glaring errors within it.

Darth Bane, who mandated the Rule of Two-wishing to purge the Old Sith.

Syrus who headed a war against the Republic, Jedi, and Sith, seeking to ensure the Sith's logevity and strength remained, wishing to purge the Old Sith-changing the Sith code itself.

Pegus who headed a war against the Jedi and Republic, and eventually the Sith, mandating the Rule of One and seeked to rule everything, Republic, Jedi, and Sith included.

Their backgrounds and upbringings similar, extremely powerful in the force, and their fates forever intertwined by the force-meeting on Korrban, where all prospect Sith are trained, their lives take a turn after a chance meeting one day on said planet. Forever changing the Sith in their own right, and in the end...

Becoming allies.

Or enemies...

* * *

Syrus and Pegus sprinted under the bright cover of the red gas giant-Yavin, moving rapidly along the thick jungle. Pegus stood at six foot and seven inches, even, and his black long legs covered the ground in wide strides, his body and feet merely nothing but a blur as the Force launched his heavily muscled physique with a sense of hunger. His long, dark brown hair bristled behind him, from the wind, and the sheer abundance of his power. He moved with a sense of anticipation.

A sense of excitement.

Syrus stood at six foot and three inches even, and unlike his partner he was ripped to the bone, with a dense muscular frame rather than a burly and massive frame, like Pegus had. His hair was long, coming out in messy spiked and curled tufts reaching the middle of his back, with some bangs trailing skyward defying all gravity, and some curling over his eyes and ears. He was nothing but a mere blur, literally invisible to the untrained eye.

Pegus set his jaw, eyes hard as he chanced a glance around.

The mission was simple. Find the Jedi stationed here and kill them. It fell onto them because Dark Lord Kaan and the other Dark Lords were preoccupied elsewhere, of course, wasting time, but Kaan had accompanied them on this mission. While they eliminated the Jedi, Kaan, and a fleet of the Sith Army would destroy the rest of the Republic's bases, and in doing this they deal two blows.

The first to the Republic.

The second to the Jedi.

They both slid to a stop.

Yavin's moon-Yavin 4, hadn't seen much action within the last thousand or so years, and because of this it's been a lot like the planet of Lehon. Out of the way and a waste of time. It was just too troublesome to bother with, or try to claim.

However within the last few weeks-Hoth and his Army of Light have been going into the Sith Curtain of space and liberating worlds from the Brotherhood's control. It was a blatant tactic of avoiding people like them, Kaan, Kas'im, Qordis, and countless others in favor of weaker opponents. Mostly the non-force sensitive armies that compromised a bulk of the Brotherhood's numbers.

If anything the Jedi were pragmatic, and Hoth was shining through with that pragmatism at this moment. Because Kaan was so careless and arrogant, he wasn't maintaining things like he should be, but how can he when he can't even maintain the faction that he founded?

The plan was a simple one. While Kaan and the rest of the army decimate the Republic and their forces, along with lesser Jedi, they were tasked with getting behind the enemy's line and slew the more powerful Jedi. There were at most, only two Masters, the number of Knights and Padawans was of no consequence because they'd have no trouble cutting them down.

Jedi Masters were a severe problem, after all.

They couldn't be swayed to the Dark Side like the Padawans, Younglings, and most of the Jedi Knights. The indoctrination and dogmatism of the Jedi were buried too deep, distilled too purely into their blood, and their haughtiness was too rampant. They'd preach and preach about the Light side and how it trumps the Dark, how it is the more powerful of the two, but it was nothing but nonsense.

Fighting so many Jedi, both Syrus and Pegus could say that the Dark side was stronger. More turbulent. Far more boisterous than the Light side could ever be. The Jedi-the Light preached about restraint, if one was powerful they couldn't unleash that power to its fullest extent. If one wanted to be more powerful they were forced to be content with what level they were at when they felt this way, there was never any room for improvement.

There was also the big one of showing no emotions and having no attachments. Quite frankly the Jedi were more obsolete than Droids-as Droids were capable of feeling emotions, even if those emotions were programmed into their make up, and some Droids were legitimately emotional and didn't like to be stepped on. However, the Jedi were just emotionless, and had no love or anything else. Positive or negative, they suppressed all of their emotions-merely letting them go.

It was for this reason that many Padawans found the smoldering heat of emotions to be so intoxicating. After all, a Padawan wasn't going to get laid in the Jedi Temple nor were they going to feel that impulse to just take that person to the bed.

Using the force, both men cloaked themselves in something of insignificance and meaninglessness. They were no more important than a tree or a tree's root, no more important than the ground itself. Pegus, took some time to perfect this cloaking technique because given his tall and massive form-he was like a Wookiee standing in a group of Jawas, and he wasn't ugly by any means. He was handsome, and used that to his advantage. But, it also meant that he attracted attention wherever he want, naturally.

The camp was just a few meters in front of them, secluded in the deep undergrowth of Yavin 4's jungle. There were about one thousand Republic Soldiers-whether they were rookies or generals didn't matter, they weren't trained in the Force, and so they'd just be paltry. They had an assembly of turrets positioned all around them-two were in the front, three were flanking them, and two were behind them. In essence they had all of their bases covered except if someone were to lunge skyward and come crashing down.

However, if one did that, surely the Jedi would be quick to react.

Besides the Republic Soldiers there were six Jedi in total, and judging from the feel of their beings only one was a Master. The other five were Knights, as the braid was severed that made every Padawan stand out from the rest.

"Hoth isn't here." Pegus said, voice baritone.

"Of course he isn't. He's in the safety of his Starship fleet elsewhere." Syrus replied, voice deep. "But, Raskta Lsu is here."

"That crazy female..."

"Yes, that exact one."

The Jedi Master was an Echani-Raskta Lsu. She was a Jedi Master, devoted to the war effort, but had yet to enlist in the Jedi's Army of Light. She was named after the legendary Echani Raskta Fenni, who had been regarded as the greatest warrior of her era. Lsu aspired to equal and then surpass the renown of her namesake. It was well known her entire Jedi career was spent honing her martial skills exclusively, and her mastery of the lightsaber was to such an extent that many considered her peerless in its application. Both Jedi and Sith, shared this view.

But, she was the bane of many Sith. Because she was so peerless with a lightsaber any who opposed her were ultimately cut down to ribbons and then some. She wielded two blue-bladed lightsabers in battle, and with one she would be deadly enough, but with that second saber she was almost unbeatable. It took the likes of himself and Pegus, Kaan, and other more powerful members of the Brotherhood to meet her on the battlefields.

When this woman and Hoth got together-there was little stopping the Republic Soldiers and the Jedi flanking them.

"Lord Kaan wants her dead." Pegus idly commented.

"Other than Hoth she's the one that stands front and center against us. The Republic gain many victories with her leading."

It was mutual-kill the Jedi Master first and foremost.

The Echani's eyes darted towards her surroundings-the darkness was perpetual. Yavin 4's days were long, as were the nights. The heat and temperature remained the same, but there was something mystique about the night. But, she wasn't blind to who was out there-two people, though their presences were _almost_ invisible, she picked up on the undercurrents of their thoughts.

Their hatred for the Jedi.

Only two present...

Her sabers sang, lashing out with blue fire. "Syrus and Pegus..."

Syrus landed on the ground first, his eyes focused solely on the Jedi Master standing before him. There was no point to staying elusive since she managed to root them out, and it'd do no good if the Republic Soldiers started using the turrets.

Pegus landed on the ground next, feet crashing into the ground leaving two small craters. He crouched in a ready stance, not pertaining to any certain style, but something he just did with his own flare. His arm was engulfed in crimson, like the blood flowing through his veins.

He directed a ghastly glare onto his foes.

Syrus had yet to ignite his saber, and it remained at his side.

"Draw your blade, Syrus." Raskta said, eyes fiercely glowing their silver luster.

Syrus could only sigh softly, taking a few steps forward before he pulled his hilt into his hand with a sharp tug of his mind, and a second later an eerie red flame nearly engulfed his entire body. He hated the Jedi just for this reason-how sanctimonious and priggish they could be, how haughty and disdainful they can be-how they pick and choose, and their ignorance.

But, he had a grudging respect for the Echani Master-she was from a race that prided themselves on physical perfection in combat. From her birth she was a warrior, she was destined to be powerful, and it was only a shame she had to be a Jedi. Had she been a Sith she'd have no equal-the passion burning in her heart, her warrior soul...However, she forewent all other aspects of the Force, and focused solely on saber combat-something he could only scoff at.

There needed to be a balance.

"Why can't you Jedi just leave this planet?"

A tall and built young man spoke up, his voice like every Jedi's. His appearance was something that was eye bulging-he easily stood close to seven feet, and weighed at least three hundred pounds.

"You Sith are the problem!"

"Oh? And, you Jedi declaring war on us is any different?"

"What of the Jedi behind you? And, the Republic Soldiers?" Pegus cut through the senseless chatter, counting the Jedi present-there were about ten, not including the Echani Master. "You've forgone your training in the Force-could you stop my crushing grip?"

"I just won't give you the chance."

"Nonsense."

Pegus reached out with the Force, surging is fury outward in one burst of energy. The impact shattered the bones of all the Republic Soldiers, sending their bodies rocketing into the trees-the crippling cracks of spine and tendon drowning out their pitiful screams. One Jedi couldn't bear his hatred, and instead of standing with the others he was sent into a tree, his body bending before a loud crack sent a flock of something scattering.

The turrets were swept away before the attack even hit anything flesh. They were lifted from their mounts-completely turned over, and the explosions that followed were propelled by the magnificent force.

Pegus smirked at the carnage that lay before him-only the Jedi remained standing. The one Jedi that had taken the brunt of his attack-putting up a hasty shield that did little to stop it, died upon impact.

"I'll handle these little runts. You handle that woman." Pegus said, voice taking a dark tone as he stepped forward.

Syrus shot ahead of Pegus-bypassed the rest of the Jedi, and collided with the Echani Master.

Raska's blue blades flickered and flashed, successfully holding back Syrus's blitzing barrage. But instead of backpedaling like most people would against her, the man kept coming, never even losing his focus. He would have plunged his sword deep through her heart, trampling her limp body under his boots, had she not corkscrewed away at the last instant.

Syrus shifted to the side, lunging from left to right, before darting for his foe. The footwork was of the Ataru nature, but drew on Makashi's economy of motion, it allowed his momentum to carry him just not through the movements, but right at Raska without expending any energy. The Jedi Master had a moment to register that he wasn't going to stop speeding towards her like a meteorite. Refusing to back down she met him head on, smacking his blade to the side to avoid having her head slung right off.

Raskta pressed, feet just barely on the ground her saber flickering through the air, flashing against her foe's in a burst of sparks. Syrus pressed his assault again, forcing the Jedi Master to increase her tempo, and just as she committed to a two hand stroke he spun around, unleashing wave of tumultuous power at her. A Weapons Master was not skilled at defending against Force attacks, just the same as not being able to really employ them.

The impact of the wave smacked into her, bracing herself the best she could, her muscular body plucked from the ground and into the air. She hurtled backwards, teeth gritting as she strained against the force seizing her body. Finally, she twisted and flipped twice, tucking in so she landed on her feet.

They collided with each other again, battling with pure, distilled aggression and savagery. Raskta pressed to meet Syrus's second charge, and just barely blocked his arc that came from his waist. She crouched low, viciously slashing at his thighs, aiming to completely cripple him. Her blades carved through only air, and she had to flip back several times to avoid the chopping strike that ripped into the ground.

Taking a few deep breaths she flourished her blades, shifting into another stance.

"Being a Jedi has held you back, Raskta." Syrus said, voice low-tinging with something close to sorrow or disappointment.

She narrowed her eyes. "Stop talking and fight me."

Syrus sighed. "Very well, you won't save them, and your apprentice is going to be cut down. The Jedi's lifestyle isn't a fit for you, and following the dogmatic Code has never sat well with you."

Rather than answer Raskta attacked Syrus with more ferocity than before.

His words struck a never she wasn't aware she even had-it struck something deep in her heart.

Meanwhile Pegus plowed through his foes.

The Jedi didn't wait for the monster of a man to close the distance, with flames engulfing their arms-blue and green, they rocketed towards the Sith looking to overtake him from the outset. One foolish Knight ran straight at him, swinging from the side-Ataru's signature sequences. Already knowing where it led to, Pegus swept the blade down, and with a small flick his attacker's head was sent flying.

His next attacker was already upon him-being more powerful than his previous foe he traded blows back and forth. He channeled his rage through his powerful shoulders, into his beefy arms and forearms, and straight into his massive maw of hands and wrists. The Jedi could try to trade blows in some vain attempt, but as he was proving it didn't make a difference, and with a chopping stroke-coming from his shoulder, he bisected the man who swung for him from his collarbone to his hip.

He bashed and smashed through the attacks thrown his way, mind wary of the fierce Echani.

He flicked his eyes onto Syrus and the Echani-they were both moving so fast and furiously that there was no possible way for them to take their focus off one another, but he could feel the Jedi Master's desire to help her comrades. Her righteous fury of them being cut down before her very eyes, unable to do anything other than combat the ferocious man before her.

He turned his eyes onto his seven foes-three were shaken up, and four looked to getting there, but the Jedi that had been a big mouth before remained strong and valiant.

Without a pause he went on the hunt. Two Jedi fell-a red flame spewing from the chests and out of their backs. Pegus twirled his saber, shifting his footing forward and arced from the side, adding a small twist to his wrist just before the attack connected. The small tweak bolstered the blade, and like terminal velocity it ran clear through two of the Jedi without losing any momentum.

Pegus removed his blade, watching the bodies slump forward-they pattered carelessly onto each other. Their limbs splaying the ground. His next attacker tried to take him down from behind, but he was giving into his hatred-and being a Sith, hatred was as familiar to him as the screams of agony his victims sang. He turned, parrying the attack, and swept in a long curve, shifting his weight onto his heel.

"Damn you!"

The Echani smashed into him, head butting him so hard he felt a fountain of blood spew free. He didn't react to the strike, only snarling in pure fury as he swept her next attack to the side, but like the tenacious woman she is, her second blade arcs up looking to chop him by the ribs. The attack was blocked, Syrus coming in from the side as Pegus returned fire. The Jedi Master crossed her blades in front of her, teeth gritting as the monstrous impacts of both men traveled through her body, wrenching her ankles and spine.

The move was to partially block their blades, but more importantly it was to stop and redirect them-and then she'd sweep them up in one movement.

However, her student came in from behind,

To her disappointment Syrus and Pegus both cancelled their attacks, jumping at least three hundred feet overhead before landing on the ground-Syrus sliding back and pressing his fingers into the densely packed ground for purchase.

"She got by me." Syrus said blandly, glancing at Pegus for a second before looking at the two foes standing before him. "You took care of them pretty fast."

"Hm." Pegus chuckled, wiping the blood away from his face. His nose wasn't broke, but it hurt like kriffing hell. "I would have finished that runt in three seconds."

"We'll finish them." Syrus declared. "No sense in leaving survivors."

"Master..."

"We're withdrawing Sarro."

"But, Master!"

The Echani gave the young man a hard look which immediately silenced him. _He executed that Juyo/Djem So transition flawlessly, despite the inherent differences, and eliminated Djem So's lack of mobility._

She clenched her sabers tighter, so tight her knuckles turned a pale blue.

If she were alone she'd be able to counter his transitions. Sarro may be talented and headstrong, but against a foe like this he wouldn't stand a chance, and since these two wouldn't spare them or anyone with them for any reasons, she wasn't going to risk Sarro's life just for the battle. She wouldn't risk it just for the mission. Sarro used a double bladed saber, and as long as the foe had the instinct to remember that the blades basically moved in unsion, they'd be able to defend.

In turn it became predictable.

Even though they did have a brute of a man with them as well, it was going to make little difference if things got prolonged.

"We need to report this to Hoth."

"What about our comrades!?"

"Be mindful of your anger, Sarro. It is justified, but remain mindful."

He didn't hang his head, instead he glared hellfire at Syrus and Pegus.

"Tell Hoth to stay out of the Sith Curtain." Syrus said, voice low with rage.

"If he doesn't heed this warning, I'll run my sabers through him and anyone I see in the Sith Curtain." Pegus declared.

With their foes in retreat Syrus and Pegus stood in the barren silence-all the animals had skittered away hearing the commotion and the bolstering emotions and energies clashing, as animals are sensitive to such things.

"There's a Republic outpost twenty miles away from here. Twelve Jedi." Pegus spoke to the man at his side, but kept his eyes focused forward in the darkness.

"Force Speed. The Jedi spread like a virus."

"Like cancer."

"That is more fitting to say."

Dark Lord Kaan swept through the gore of the battlefield, mowing down anyone that had the courage, or was stupid enough to attack him. Fortunately, Jedi didn't know how to retreat, so he hacked, and swung, cauterizing flesh and reducing bodies to mere fractions. He stepped over the brittle fingers, hearing the crunch beneath his flecked boots. The morale of his troops was high-they were steadily pushing the Republic and what little Jedi were with them off of the small planet in the Outer Rims.

It was a long a bloody battle.

But, the Republic and Jedi suffered much heavier losses.

All around the bodies of his own, and the Republic lay scattered. Some were the black robes of a Sith, and some wore the brown robes of a Jedi. There was the Republic Armor and laughable attire. They all shared the same fate, and their bodies were trampled upon by those still alive fighting for survival, fighting for supremacy. It was a cold hard fate, a grave truth-despite all their ideals both Jedi and Sith step on their comrades. The Republic and their so called democracy, step on people and being regardless.

He could taste the despair, like a well, it led to an insurmountable bottom, and with a conniving smirk he drew his focus inward, just momentarily. The Republic Troops were all scattered and the Jedi that remained were trying to run away, but some were willing to switch sides, and others fought until the very last breath-he had to admire their courage, even if it was foolish on their part.

The pulse of fear rippled from his being, much like a shock wave, it swept away everything in its wake. Troopers screamed and began to run around, bumping into each other-their fear only fueled his fire, more than delicious, he let it swelter until he could feel their life forces diminishing. Snuffed out by the scorching heat of a saber or by getting the life choked out of them.

Yes, victory was well at hand. Now, the Jedi-Lord Hoth would have no choice but to come out and fight them.

Once he-the Brotherhood of Darkness, he smirked; destroyed the Jedi, the Republic would be easy pickings. They'd put Coruscant into a Force Choke itself-the whole Core Worlds, and then it'd be the Deep Core soon after.

"Victory is ours! The Republic has suffered a great defeat. The Jedi have suffered a great defeat! The Brotherhood is victorious!"

Those still alive roared in triumph, though wounded and wary from the battle hearing Dark Lord Kaan roar out rejuvenated all of them. Victory revitalized them.

"Lord Kaan, I bring grave news."

The jubilation of the moment was almost gone, however Kaan merely eyed the foot soldier in front of him. It wasn't grave news, having to do with anything with their recent victory. He could feel it himself, the Republic was now in full retreat, what Jedi didn't pledge their allegiance to the Brotherhood were cut down, but despite this...He could feel two powerful beacons amidst the swarms of the retreating.

The numbers dwindled quickly.

They continued to dwindle.

"I will handle them. Inform Lord Kas'im and Lord Qordis on Korriban that Lords Syrus and Pegus will be returning to the Temple for...Extended training."

"Yes, Lord Kaan." The Sith minion obediently bowed his head, not daring to question his superior.

But, it was of no great consequence if Lords Syrus and Pegus ripped through the rest of the Republic's force here, that's what he thought anyways, as lowly a solider as he was.

Kaan wasted no time in clearing the great distance between him and the two people of his ire. This planet was mostly a jungle type landscape with thick undergrowth, moss, sprawling trees, and massive mesas. While the Republic forces did try to use the terrain to their advantage he had his Sith fleet bombard them from above, gathering them all into one cluster before spreading gore all over the place.

The message was clear, and he was quite satisfied...However, there two were not, and this wasn't the first time something like this has occurred. More and more they grow rebellious, as powerful as they are, they are ten times more rebellious. Even if they weren't trying to usurp his leadership, disobeying his direct orders wasn't going to look good on his part.

He couldn't afford dissension.

Cauterized flesh burned his nostrils, its stench a welcomed, but at the same time unwelcomed effect of the current scene before him. There had to be thousands of bodies, he knew they had killed many-Sith rarely took prisoners, but that had been an overall effort on everyone's part, including his own. This was nothing short of the work by these two.

He casted a glance to off to the side, eyes cold as he observed what had to be part of a torso and arm off to the side, the arm still connected to it. The rest of the body was somewhere among the rotting debris, or crushed by the actual debris from the previous battle.

A snarl tore through his throat, and he wasted little time in darting up to the two responsible for this. It took but a few minutes, but he finally found them, hacking people to pieces.

"Lord Syrus! Lord Pegus!"

"What!?" Pegus roared at Kaan's exclamation and interrupting as if it infuriated him to his very core. Snapping around while choking the life out of a woman Pegus gave a heated expression, eyes glowing a sinister yellow-Kaan believed the woman to be insignificant as she was just a Jedi Padawan at best.

"It's done, we've won. What are you doing?"

"It's not done until they're all dead." Syrus said coldly, his voice holding much defiance. Even as he spoke he cut down the last of the enemies, brutally bisecting a man from the face to chest. Another arc sent three bodies thudding, torsos falling into segments, and one long gait finished off the remnants as the fire tore through their bodies, engulfing them whole.

Kaan could barely restrain his scowl.

It was one thing to do this, and then stand down when he orders it, but these two have crossed the line...Rather than obey they continued on in their own indulgences instead he chose to smirk letting the Force envelop him, poking at their minds and emotions. He studied the art of Force Persuasion, and he was very exceptional in it.

Even if someone wanted to rebel, they truly couldn't. He knew how to play people, use them. His pull in the force was overwhelming. However, he knew it was folly because these two weren't going to listen to any reason. However, he could sway them, if only slightly. After all, there was no one else alive, other than that woman.

Pegus clenched his fist, and the woman let out one last choked gasp before her bones cracked and shattered. "A true Sith Lord shows no mercy to the enemy even if it's another Sith."

"Revan sliced off Malak's jaw." Syrus added brusquely, tone lethal. "Malak tried to reproach him."

"That is Dark Lord."

"How can there be more than one Dark Lord?"

Kaan didn't make any move to hide his displeasure at their words. It hit deep, as he knew what their whole point was. The Old Ways. Syrus's threat also didn't go unnoticed. It didn't go floating over his head.

"Things have changed, none of that matters anymore. The Brotherhood of Darkness is the present. Ajunta Pall, Exar Kun, Revan, Malak, Malgus, Sion, Nihilus, and all those from millennia ago are all relics. Nothing remains of them, not even the dust of their bodies. I understand you are fervent about your duties and are devout to the Brotherhood of Darkness, but you've disobeyed a direct order from me, and I can't just let this go without punishment. It's even worse that you bring up those relics. This isn't the first time either."

"I thought we're all equals. I am a Dark Lord!" Pegus clenched his teeth, confused and angry. How could Kaan even think of reproaching them from vanquishing the enemy?

"It is because of occurrences like this, but you still carry the title of Dark Lord. You should be grateful, Pegus, for someone of your age having such stature is rare."

Pegus sneered, turning away from Kaan.

"You two are going to go back to the Academy on Korriban. You need more training."

This time, it was Syrus who sneered. "My brother and I have killed hundreds, thousands of Jedi. Hundreds of thousands of Republic Forces. We've taken down Repulbic ground fleets. Space fleets. We've fought in these wars, on other worlds you're not caring to pay any attention to. Just like this one. What need do I have to go back there? I have nothing else to learn. Sirak has been Qordis's apprentice for how long now? Twenty years? He's probably the top apprentice of the Academy too, since my brother and I have joined in the war effort, I bet..."

Kaan took steps forward, unheeding of the boiling rage within Pegus's being and the shimmering fury in Syrus's being-what a maelstrom of power they were both exuding. Syrus and Pegus were both taller and more muscular than him, height wasn't by much, but physically it was substantial-they weren't very burly like Sak'im, but more ripped to the bone and lean, muscular, but they had size on them.

"You speak dangerous words, both of you. Lord Pegus. Lord Syrus. I could have your heads for treason."

"You couldn't take my head." Syrus said.

Pegus shook his head, the rage slowly, but not completely diminishing from his eyes, though his aura still pulsated with the gushing wave every few seconds. "Why are we being punished for killing our enemies? For showing no mercy? What Sith Lord shows mercy?"

Kaan jabbed him in the chest before doing the same to Syrus. "Because, you're both obsessed with the old ways. This should be a good lesson for you both-the past is the past and the Brothehood is the present, think of this as your final piece of training. I hope you pass, because if you don't you may not be carrying the Dark Lord title any longer."

 _Not like it means anything..._ Syrus sneered, keeping his thoughts to himself.

"Brother, I'm going to the ship." Pegus stormed off, unbidden now, he let the storm return ten fold. He didn't hide his rage or anger, it always gave him strength, allowed him to do impossible things, allowed him to survive his early years on his war ridden planet, growing up with Syrus.

 _Kaan is wrong. This isn't right._ Pegus thought, angrily jumping into a quick bout of Force Speed, hoping to get away from Kaan's wily presence.

Syrus flicked his bright yellow eyes up at Kaan, not taking them off of the man's own. "Why are you doing this, really?"

Kaan merely folded his arms over his chest. "You've both disobeyed direct orders, more than once from me, not including the other Lords."

Syrus felt his jaw start to ache. "I thought we're all equals."

"We are, and it's because of that I'm doing this. If you two aren't punished for this it shows favoritism on my part, and the Council's part. There are many that question your...Stability."

Syrus narrowed his eyes. Hot anger washed over him, bright red and savage, it only wished to tear him apart from the inside out as he sliced off Kaan's jaw, this man was too self absorbed...

Kaan turned his back to the younger man, casting a glance back, only focusing out the corner of his eye. "I think you'd like to know that you and your brother killed more Republic Solders and Jedi, than even myself during this battle."

Syrus disengaged his Lightsaber-the beaming eerie red flame vanished. He set it into its holster, turning his own back to Kaan. "I show no mercy to my enemies."

"Are they still using those Durasteel training sabers..."

"Indeed, it's good to go back to your humble beginnings."

Syrus laughed. "Why is that still going on? Why isn't anyone taking on apprentices? Why aren't real Lightsabers used for the training? The Jedi, even as initiates train with a Lightsaber."

"Because they have to earn them!" Kaan all but snarled.

"That is foolishness. There is no Ritual Rite with the Sith getting a Lightsaber, that is a Jedi tradition. A lightsaber is a weapon! Just like the Force a Sith is trained in both from the time they can walk. You are a kriffing fool, Kaan!" Syrus sprinted with Force Speed, quickly turning into a blur before disappearing into the nearby jungle.

Kaan walked at a leisure pace, massaging his temples. When he returned to his comrades and fellow Dark Lords he wasn't angry or wary, he was confident and strong, he savored his victory. They all roared in triumph.

* * *

His power was growing, rapidly. So rapidly in fact, he had a hard time comprehending it. In only a few short months of training he learned a wealth of knowledge about the Force, and the Dark Side-the power it promises.

Physically he was stronger, more powerful, faster, more swift, more agile, and more vital than he ever had been before. He could run at full speed for several kilometers during the morning runs before he began to feel winded. His reflexes were much more acute, whenever he would drop something he'd automatically snatch it out of the air, on instinct. On command.

His mind and senses-including his sixth sense were also amplified to staggering heights.

It was almost incomprehensible.

When necessary he could embue his body with the Force, giving him bursts of vitality, strength, endurance, speed, the ability to do flips and corkscrews, survive falls from thousands of feet, and leap vertically higher than thirty meters, easy-if he tried he could get 70 meters.

He was always aware of his surroundings, sensing the presence of others even if they were trying to conceal themselves. They could be close by, or on the temple roof, distance wasn't a factor in his perception.

Sometimes he could get a feel on a person's intentions, their emotions, but it was vague and not very defined. Like a mist. Sort of complicated, but given its nature he wasn't surprised, and didn't focus too much on this aspect.

He was now able to levitate larger objects now, much larger-huge boulders and the such were child's play, and he could sustain for longer periods of time as well.

With each lesson his power grow. His knowledge grew. He could feel it in his blood, hot, surging, he thristed for more. Each passing week, he found himself surpassing another student, sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes three that had been ahead of him. That had been here for fourteen years, even twenty years.

He spent less time in the archives study the ancient scroll and manuscripts. He lost interest in them, his obsession passing, as he immersed himself into the academy life.

Discerning the knowledge of the Masters passed dead was a ponderous and cold pleasure. It just wasn't meant for him. He spent more time with the students, watching them, observing them, mingling with them. There was already jealousy, though no one was foolish enough to act against him.

Competition was of course encouraged among the apprentices, and the Masters allowed the competition to drift into a rivarly, and then that rivalry drift into enmity, animosity, and hatred as it all fueled the Dark Side and made them stronger.

However, there were harsh penalties for any apprentice caught intefering with or disrupting another apprentice's training.

Of course they knew that the punishment was actually for being careless enough to get caught doing it in the first place. Treachery was accepted, naturally, as long as the person doing it was cunning enough to do it without the instructor's notice. If the person wasn't cunning enough then that simply meant they were too weak.

His preternatural progress protected him the machinations and wily schemes of his fellow apprentices, as nobody could make a move against him, or even whisper a word with catching the attention of Qordis and all the other Dark Lords.

Unfortunately it made it near impossible for him to use treachery, cunning, deception, or anything of the sort to attain greater status within the Academy, but he was patient.

There was also a rule about never killing an opponent in the duel, because one Sith Apprentice was more precious than ten battallions.

Quite frankly he wasn't so sure about this, the strong always made strides ahead. That's how it was. If the weak didn't become strong, they'd only be dragged by the strong, used, trampled. He knew it all too well.

There was one sanctioned way for students to bring a rival down, though; Lightsaber combat. The weapon of choice for both the Jedi and Sith. It was more than just a blade of pure energy, capable of cutting through just about anything in the galaxy. There was little that could actually stand up against it.

It was an extension of the user and their command of the force. A projection of Light or Dark. Only those with austere and absolute physical and mental prowess were capable of wielding the weapon to its true deadly potential.

At least that's what he and the other apprentices had been taught.

As far as he knew very few of the students possessed actual Lightsabers, since they had to prove themselves worthy in Lord Qordis and the other Lord's eyes, and he could only think of two that did. Though they haven't been at the Academy, because they were participating in the war against the Jedi and Republic, spending most of their time in what many called the Sith Curtain.

This didn't stop Lord Kas'im, the critical Twi'lek Blademaster, from instructing them in the nuances of the seven styles of Lightsaber combat and the thousands of techniques they'd use once they earned their weapons.

It was a little strange to him-since Jedi Padawans and even initiates had their own Lightsabers, at least that's what he'd heard during his time on the Catina in his homeworld. When he had been Des.

Every morning all of the apprentices would gather on the massive stone roof of the temple to practice their drills, katas, routines, and spar under his ever critical watch. Ever struggling to learn the the complex and exotic movements that would bring them victory on the numerous battlefields across the Star Systems.

Through victory my chains are broken.

Sweat was already running down his forehead, burning and persistent, he blinked it awat-refusing to wipe at it, tripled his exertion, and carved the air in front him over and over and over. All around him other apprentices were doing the same thing. Trying to conquer their own physical, mental, and emotional limitations, to conquer being mortal and become more than just a man or woman, a warrior with a weapon...

But to become an extension of the Dark Side itself.

He had begun like everyone else. Learning the basics of all seven forms of Lightsaber combat. His first weeks were spent in nauseating and tedious repititions of defensive postures, offensive postures, overhead strikes, parries, blocks, binding, shifting, stabs, thrusts, and sweeping swings.

Lord Kas'im observed his students carefully while determining which form of Lightsaber combat would be their best match. For him he chose Djem So. the variant of from V Shien focused exlcusively on Lightsaber combat rather than deflecting blaster fire.

Djem So emphasized strength and power, not just battering through defenses, but countering and striking, and striking and countering all within seconds of each other. It was to his best advantage as he could use his size and overall physical prowess to batter and bash his opponents into utter submission.

Only after he was able to perform each and every move of Djem So to the the satisfation of Lord Kas'im was he allowed to begin his real training. Along with the other students of the academy he spent a few hours every morning practicing his techniques with his training saber under Kas'im's ever critical eye. But, he also practiced his techniques and sequences in private whenever he got the chance, always changing the trajectory of his blade by a few centimeters.

The training sabers were made of Durasteel with edges severly blunted as to not maim any one practicing, these training sabers had been specifically crafted so that their balance and heft mimicked that of a real Lightsaber.

A solid blow could inflict severe damage-break bones, tear ligaments. But, since a Lightsaber didn't work this way, and it took significant force to break bone, each training blade was covered with millions of toxin saturated barbs, far to small for the naked eye to see.

They were taken from the spines of the rare Pelko Bug, native to Korriban where it dwelled in the sands of the Valley of the Dark Lords. One direct hit and the minute barbs could tear through any fabric.

Its venom caused flesh to burn and blister, a temporary state of paralysis set in at the point of infection, leaving any limb struck completely useless, and if there were shots landed to the body, it had the same effect. This was perfect in mimicking the effects of losing an arm, leg, hand, or any limb from a Lightsaber, of suffering a cut to the torso by one.

The grunts and exhalations of the apprentices and the swish-wish-woosh of their blades cleaving through the air was the only that could be heard this morning, other then the desolate wind blowing.

It reminded him of his short stint in the military. A group of soldiers united as one in the reptition of their drills until that became like instinct. And, eventually, to be able to read the other's intentions without even trying-to just know.

He never had to question if those soldiers under him would watch his back, because they would, just as he tried to preserve their lives despite the madness of the attacks.

However, there were no such feelings here. He had no comrades, and he was on his own. The apprentices were rivals and enemies, plain and simple, cut and clean. They were always trying to one up the other, and often times killing each other.

It reminded him of his time on Apatros, but now the isolation was more than worth it since he was being taught the secrets of the Dark Side...Even if he didn't agree with some of things they were doing.

"Wrong!" Kas'im thundered, walking down the rows of apprentices training until he was front of him. "You must strike with malice and pricison! You must want to eviscerate the person standing before you! Hate them!"

He reached out, grabbing wrist, turning it and changing the angle of the training blade.

"You are coming in too high and leaving your side exposed. You must strike from the side, fluidly, generate power from the very beginning and move all at once. Use your forward approach as momentum. There is no room for error in real Lightsaber combat! One milisecond is all it takes to lose a limb or your head."

Kas'im stayed at the tall and muscular man's side, like a shadow, for several long seconds, until he was certain the lesson had been fully instilled. After performing several hard thrusts and sweeps with the altered grip, the burly Twi'lek nodded his head in approval and continued his long, purposeful strides.

The tall man repeated the move over and over, persistent, meticiulous, careful to keep the height and angle of the blade exactly the way Kas'im showed him. He dedicated it to memory, teaching his muscles and mind through many repetitions to execute it to perfection each time. He built the mind-muscle connecting, and he tried to feel out the movement.

How the saber moved, his body moving in tandem. Only then would he move on to incorporating it into more complicated sequences and moves, not a second sooner.

He panted, sweat pouring down his forehead. Physically the Blademaster's exercises couldn't come close to hammering away in the mines for hours with a hydraulic jack, like he had been before, but they were more exhausting in other ways.

They demanded intense mental focus, almost inhuman focus, an attention to detail that went beyond just seeing with the naked eye, but feeling, and perceiving.

The Force.

True mastery of Lightsaber required a combination of both a robust body and a strong mind, a strong will, and a strong flourish in the force.  
When a Dark Lord and Jedi Master dueled, the actions happened all too quickly for the eye to trace and for the mind to percieve. Everything had to be done on instinct.

The body must be trained to move on its own without conscious thought. In order to accomplish this Kas'im made the apprentices practice sequences and katas, carefully thought out and choreographed; multiple strikes, parries, blocks, stabs, thrusts, etc drawn from their chosen styles.

They were devised by himself so each move transitioned smoothly into another, maximizing attack efficiency as well as tempo, while reducing defensive and offensive exposure due to negligence.

By using sequences in combat it allowed the apprentices to free their minds, and more importantly it allowed them to move without conscious thought. This was much more efficient, than planning and deliberating every little move, thus it granted a huge advantage over an opponent not well versed, or even the least bit familiar with the particular style.

Ingraining them however, was whole different matter. It was extremely complicated, and many of the apprentices would take up to three weeks, at least of training and drills, and it took even longer if the sequence, or technique originates from a style the apprentice is still struggling to master, or it could be one from a totally different style-the opposite of the apprentice's forte.

Of course even the most miniscule mistake-just a fraction, a breath, was enough to break the chain.

Kas'im spotted a glaring error-a fatal flaw in his technique. Now, he'd have to go at this for hours on his own time, which was no big deal. His perfectionist nature couldn't allow such a flaw, especially in his Lightsaber technique. He'd have to ingrain it, and then make an entire new sequence on his own.

But, he had to wonder about the sequences. In real combat, be as it may, things weren't going to go as they do in the sequence. Sequence leads to repetition. They also weren't training with real Lightsabers, which was unfortunate, but he wasn't going to complain about it.

It was just a matter of them actually handling these weapons, and than going to Lightsabers which were more complex, by nature. The sequences served a purpose in showing the proper technique and form, so the move is able to deal the crushing force it should.

Maybe if they could synthesize an actual fight-with real Lightsabers during every single spar, every single morning practice, it could make a difference.

Different than the duels after training.

Also, it'd be better if there was an actual apprenticeship of sorts-one on one teaching with Masters, that way the apprentices would be ten times stronger in the end, and in turn they'd be able to pass that onto their apprentice.

Bane shook his head, focusing on the present. There was no need to ponder the glaring flaws in the Brotherhood.

"That's enough." Kas'im rumbled.

All the apprentices stopped what they were doing, turning their full attention onto the Twi'lek standing at the head of the room.

"Rest for ten minutes. The challenges will begin after."

The apprentices stopped what they were doing.

"We're ending early today?" One apprentice asked.

Kas'im nodded with a grave look in his eyes. "Lords Syrus and Pegus are returning here for extended training it seems..."

"Those two..." Another apprentice murmured.

"Why?" Another questioned.

"I didn't think I would ever see them again." A few of the apprentices made the same comment, quietly of course.

"Indeed, everything will continue like always despite them returning." Kas'im said, eyes shading with some anger. _Why I don't know since they are needed out there on the battlefields...What is Kaan thinking?_

Bane knew of the two because everyone else knew about them-everyone in the galaxy and Brotherhood, in the Jedi, knew about them. It had been a long time since they've been here, as they've been on the frontlines battling in the many wars that spread across worlds.

It'd be interesting to see these two in person, he could admit that much.

He set himself into a meditative posture, legs crossed and back erect. He laid his training saber to his side, then closed his eyes allowing himself to slip into a light trance, drawing on the Dark Side, his passion and hunger to rejuvenate his fatigued muscles and wary mind.

He let it flow through him without restraint, letting his mind drift amidst the raging torrent. He could remember the first time he tapped into the Dark Side, not the halfhearted grazes that he'd experience back on Apatros or during his days as a soldier, but a true immersion in its endless depth. It had been his first day at the Academy, and he was applying the meditation techniques he had learned just minutes earlier-then he felt it.

It was a raging torrent within him, distilled and pure. It swept his doubts, his fears, his insecurities, his failures, his weakness, and in that instant he knew why he was alive. In that instant he felt alive, truly alive. That moment his transformation from the lowly miner Des to Bane, from man, to Sith, had begun.

Through power I gain victory.

Through victory my chains are broken.

He knew all about chains. There were glaring ones. An abusive father, who didn't give two shits. Agonizingly long shifts in the mines. Having to payback a corrupt, and faceless corporation that in all honesty had more than money than they knew what to do with. Other chains were more subtle the Republic and it's idealistic nonsense, a promise of a better life that never ever comes to fruition, the Jedi and their vow to rid the galaxy of evil and injustice.

Even his friends in the Gloom Walkers had been a part of a cycle, and endless chain forever to continue. He truly did care for them, and he had responsible for all of their lives. Was still responsible for their deaths. Yet, in the end they hadn't been of much use to him when he needed them the most.

He understood too well now that personal attachments could only hold him back from attaining his true potential. Friends were nothing more than a burden. He could only rely on himself-that's all he ever could rely on, himself. He had to develop his own potential, increase his own power, and refine all of his skills. In the end it came down to power, and above all else, more than anything, the Dark Side promised power.

The sounds of movement, the shuffle of robes as other apprentices rose from their postures, making their way to the challenge ring. He drew himself out of the light trance he settled into, slowly opening his eyes, grabbed his training saber, and leapt to his feet to join them.

At the end of each training session the apprentices would gather in a wide, somewhat similar, to a circle formation at the top of the temple. Any single student could step in and issue a challenge to another, but it was never more than two people at once. Kas'im would then observe the duels with the same critical eye as always, and once it was over he would breakdown his observation for everyone present.

Those who won were naturally praised for their performance and their place in the informal, but very real hierarchy would rise. Those who lost were chastised for their failings, and corrections were made to what they did wrong, all the while their prestige would suffer.

When Bane had first started his training, many of the apprentices had eagerly called him out since they knew he was but a novice at best in the Force and Lightsaber combat, and they were eager to take down the heavily muscled man so they could earn praise. At first he denied all of the challenges that came his way, true, they were the quickest way to gain prestige academy, but he knew he was guaranteed to lose.

However, over the past months he's invested all of his time to honing his style and refining his technique. He learned new sequences and techniques very quickly, to a point that it surprised him, and when Kas'im himself had commented on his preternatural progress in the Lightsaber art, at the moment he felt more than confident enough to start accepting challenges.

He didn't win every single time, but he was winning more duels than he was losing them, slowly climbing his way up the ladder of the hierarchy until he was at the very top. He was feeling pretty good today, and was ready to take another step or two up the ladder.

The apprentices were standing five rows, making a clearing in the center roughly fifty feet, maybe a little less. Kas'im stepped into the middle, he didn't say a word, only tilting his head. The sign it was for the challenges to begin.

Bane made his move before anyone else could do anything.

"Fohargh, I challenge you."

"I accept."


	2. Chapter 2

Fohargh was a Makurth. He reminded Bane of the Trandoshans he had fought in his days with the Gloom Walkers on their home planet-Kashyyk's neighbor. Both species were bipedal saurians-lizardlike humanoids covered in leathery green scales.

The Makurths had four curved horns growing from the top of their heads, however, and it's something they took pride in.

The Markuths also weren't renowned hunters like the Trandoshians. They'd take prisoners from battles back to their home world and hunt them down for sport in the thick and dense forests that sprawled across the entire planet. They were constant enemies of the Sith, refusing to give ground and yield. They foolishly tried to hunt down Sith, and were among many who openly rejected Brotherhood.

Early in Bane's training, he had fought Fohargh.

He lost. The Makurth was nocturnal by nature.

Like the miners during the night shift on Apatros.

He had grown accustomed to an unnatural schedule in order to train with the rest of the apprentices at the Academy. During their first duel Bane had underestimated Fohargh, expecting him to be sluggish and slow during the daylight hours. He wouldn't make that mistake twice. He wouldn't make the mistake of underestimating his foes.

Kas'im and the apprentices watched in silence as the two combatants circled each other in the ring, training sabers held out before them in the standard ready stance.

Fohargh's breath came out in grunts and growls, flaring his nostrils as he tried to force Bane to cower. Every once in a while he'd give a short bellow and shake his four-horned head and flash his uneven, jagged teeth.

The last time Bane faced the green-scaled, snorting demon of an apprentice...He had been intimidated by Fohargh's act.

Now he simply ignored the posturing.

It was meaningless.

Bane lunged, moving with a simple overhead strike, but Fohargh responded with a quick parry to deflect the stroke aside.

Bane quickly made two successions, deflecting the first stroke from the Markuth and stopping the second.

Instead of the crackle and hum of blades of pure energy crossing, there was a loud clang as the weapons clashed. Immediately the combatants spun away from each other and resumed their ready positions.

Bane rushed, his blade arcing diagonally from right to left in long, swift arcs. Fohargh managed to redirect the impact with his own weapon, but lost his balance and stumbled back upon nearly getting his face cut-moving just a fraction of enough back. Bane tried to press his advantage on his lumbering foe, training saber arcing up. His opponent spun out of harm's way, backpedaling quickly to create space, but Bane broke off his sequence and rushed forward.

Fohargh grunted, forced back a few steps.

Back on Apatros his latent abilities in the Force had allowed him to anticipate and react to the moves of his foe. It had been miners trying to take his find or money right then and there, other times it was fighting over gambling, and other times it was fighting just to fight. He could recall one man getting punched right across the back of his head. Another one had been ganged up on by two others, and they ended up killing each other.

Here, however, every opponent enjoyed the same advantage.

Victory required a combination of the Force, intuition, wit, instinct, will, prowess, reflexes, and physical skill.

Bane had worked on acquiring that physical skill over the past months of training. As this ability grew, he was able to devote less and less of his mental energy to the physical actions of thrust, parry, and counterthrust. They were already ingrained deep within him through muscle memory. Thousands upon thousands of hours of practice made his movements second nature.

This allowed him to keep his mind focused so he could use the Force to anticipate his opponent's moves, while at the same time obscuring and confusing his enemy's own precognitive senses.

Last time he and the Marktuh had fought, Bane had been but a a novice. He had only learned a handful of sequences at best. Now he knew almost two hundred, and he was able to transition smoothly from the end of one sequence into the beginning of another, opening up a wider range of offensive and defensive combinations. He could move from the beginning of one to the beginning of another and back to the beginning of one eighty sequences away, all the way over again. The more options he had the more difficult it'd be for a foe to use the Force to anticipate his actions.

The more difficult it would be to contend with saber prowess.

Fohargh for all of his terrifying horns and teeth, was barely holding his ground. He was physically outmatched by the brute force of Bane's Form V assault. He twirled his training saber, building up momentum so he didn't even have to flick tenth of his strength, choosing to rely on the defensive style of Form III to keep his smaller, but more powerful opponent's relentless and oppressive attacks at bay.

Spinning his training saber, Bane leapt high in the air and came crashing down from above.

Fohargh parried the attack, howling while straining, and was knocked to the ground.

He rolled onto his back and barely managed to get his saber up in time to block Bane's next slashing attack. A chorus of metal on metal rang out as Bane's blows descended like torrential rainfall, he didn't even care if his form was off. He just wanted to take his foe's head-to finish him off. To leave him defeated.

The Makurth kept him from landing a direct hit with another defensive flurry, and managed to swipe Bane off his feet.

Bane slammed one hand into the ground, scooping himself upward with a quick motion of his wrist.

They flipped to their feet, mirror images, but Fohargh was a just a bit faster off the gun, and their sabers met with another resounding clang before they disengaged moving into another contest of parry and stroke.

There were some whispers and mutters from the assembled crowd, but Bane did his best to tune them out.

They had thought the battle was over...As he had.

He was a bit disappointed that he hadn't been able to finish off his fallen opponent, but he knew victory was near.

Fohargh's survival had extracted a heavy toll: he was breathing in ragged gasps now, his shoulders slumping. His relentless slashes and whacks must have left the Markuth's arms feeling like Mando iron.

Bane rushed Fohargh again.

The Makurth didn't back away, and instead stepped forward while a swift thrust smeared the air, switching from Form III to the more precise and aggressive Form II seamlessly. Bane cursed as he was caught off guard by the unexpected maneuver. His parry attempt knocked the tip of the blade away from his chest, but the Markuth powered through and sliced right across his shoulder.

Before he finished the sequence Fohargh brought his training blade down-clipping Bane right across the face.

People gasped.

Fohargh howled in victory.

Bane screamed in pain as the saber slipped to the ground from his useless fingers. Bane snarled, using his other hand to shove his opponent in the chest.

Fohargh flipped backward, head crashing off of the ring drawing an irate bellow out of him.

Bane rolled away to safety.

Bane extended his left hand to the training saber lying on the ground meters away. It sprang up and into his palm, and he leapt up to his feet once again assumed the ready position, his right arm dangling uselessly at his side.

Some Sith could wield sabers with both hands, but Bane hadn't yet reached that advanced stage.

Silently, he pondered why...

Just entertaining the thought.

Reality settled back in, as cold metal burned into his heavily calloused fingers. The weapon felt awkward and clumsy as he held it. Left-handed, he was no match for Fohargh. He could barely feel his face, and if he wasn't mistaken-his vision was starting to grow hazy.

The fight was over.

He'd be damned if he lost, though...

He wouldn't...

He would not...

"Defeat is bitter, ugly human." Fohargh growled in Basic, his voice deep and grotesque. "You have lost. You're pitiful."

"You're kriffing ugly." Bane snarled.

"Humans are ugly. Weak humans are even more ugly. You disgust me."

Bane felt heat gathering deep in his core. This fool wasn't asking him to yield. No. Surrender had never been an option. He was simply taunting him, publicly humiliating him in front of the other students. Stroking his own ego while he chipped away at his one. Boasting his pride while he tore down his own.

Bane took a sharp breath, struggling to keep his teeth from grinding together.

"You trained for weeks to challenge me, and look at how pitiful you are. All of that was meaningless." Fohargh continued, drawing out his mockery. "You failed. Victory is mine, again."

"Then come finish me and stop being a coward! Shut up and fight!" Bane roared back.

"This ends when I want it to end." Forhargh snarled.

The eyes of the other apprentices burned into Bane. He could feel them reveling in his suffering as they watched. Watching him. Cursing him. Scrutinizing him. They resented him, resented the extra attention he had been receiving from the Masters. Now they reveled in his failure. They reveled in his pride being torn to shreds.

"You are weak. Pitiful." Fohargh explained, casually twirling his own saber in a complex and intricate pattern. "You are predictable."

Bane wanted to scream. But despite the emotion building up inside him, he refused to give his opponent the satisfaction of saying another word.

Bane let the useless saber fall to the ground. In the background he could see the Blademaster watching intently, curious to see how the confrontation would reach its inevitable end. He wasn't bothering to step in or interfere. If Fohargh were to kill him right here, he wouldn't care.

He began to tremble in fury.

"The Masters favor you. They give you extra time and attention. More than the others. More than me. You are a mockery, a failure of a Sith!"

Bane couldn't hear the words. His heart was pounding so loud and fierce he could hear the blood coursing through his veins. He was quaking with impotent rage.

"Despite all of that, you are still my inferior...Bane of the Sith."

Bane.

Something in the way Fohargh said it-so casually, with so much contempt. So much judgement. So much condemnation. It caused Bane's eyes to burn.

It was the same way his father used to say the word.

"That name is..." Bane grated out, his voice low and shaking. " _Mine. No one uses that against me!_ "

"That is my name." Bane thundered, voice low-shaky, like his breathing.

The Markuth took a leisure step forward.

"Bane. Worthless. An insignificant nothing. A pitiful little man. The Masters wasted their time on you. Time better spent on other students. Students that have potential and talent. You are well named."

"You will not use my name against me!"

Bane screamed as loud as he could, thrusting his hands, good and bad forward-his palms facing forward as Fohargh leapt in to finish him off. Dark side energy-hot and like molten lava, erupted from his open palms catching his opponent in midair, hurling him back to the edge of the crowd where he landed at Kas'im's feet. The Master watched with an intrigued but wary expression.

Bane lifted the Markuth off of the ground, fingers clenching on both of his hands. He seethed. His jaws ached. He felt his like this teeth were going to crack. He slowly clenched his fists and rose to his feet. His eyes were like fire, while his expression was as wild as fire itself.

"I'll crush you...I'll destroy you!"

Fohargh began writhing in agony, clutching at his throat and gasping for breath.

Bane had nothing to say to his helpless opponent. He was weak. He was pathetic. He let down his guard. Bane let out another savage growl, squeezing his fists harder, feeling the Force rushing through him like a flood, like an avalanche. It forced him into jerking spasms and something akin to fire scorching every single inch of him.

Fohargh's gasps shrieked out a staccato.

He began to gurgle. Pink foam...Saliva...welled up from between his lips.

It fell onto the temple roof, gathering quickly in sickly piles.

"Enough, Bane!" Kas'im said in an even tone, eyes hovering on the filth right by him.

"I said enough!" Kas'im repeated, voice rising as Bane refused to listen.

A final surge of power roared out from Bane's core-it forced him to convulse and growl as it exploded out into the world. In response, Fohargh's body went stiff and his eyes rolled back in his head. A long sigh passed the Markuth's lips before the crackling of his windpipe and neck deafened everything around them. Bane released his hold on his fallen enemy, and the Makurth's body dropped lifelessly to the ground below.

"Now it is enough..." Bane breathed out, turning his back to everyone and walked toward the stairs that led back inside the temple.

The circle of students quickly opened a path for him to pass.

He didn't need to look back to know that Kas'im was watching him.

* * *

He had already felt the presence of someone following him down the stairs from the temple roof long before he heard the footsteps. Long before he heard the echo of the footsteps. Bane didn't change his long strides, but he decided to stop at the first landing and turn to face whoever it was following him. He was almost expecting to see Lord Kas'im, but instead of the Blademaster himself...

He found himself staring into the orange eyes of Sirak, another apprentice at the Academy.

Or rather, the top apprentice at the Academy.

Sirak.

He was a Zabrak, one of four apprenticing here on Korriban. Bane could recall a few Zabrak that had stopped on his home planet, though they were smugglers or something of that sort. Bounty hunters as well. The Zabrak tended to be ambitious, ruthless, driven, and arrogant-perhaps it was these traits that made the Force-sensitives of the race so strong in the ways of the dark side. Sirak was the perfect embodiment of those characteristics. He was the strongest of the four. Wherever Sirak went, the other three followed, trailing at his heels.

They made a colorful trio.

Red-skinned Llokay and Yevra, pale red Vera, and pale yellow Sirak.

The other three were conspicuously absent.

There were rumors that Sirak had begun studying the ways of the dark side under Lord Qordis nearly twenty years ago, long before the Academy at Korriban had been converted Bane didn't know if the rumors were completely true, or just blown out of proportion. He didn't feel inclined to ask and knew it was wise not to.

The Iridonian Zabrak was both powerful and dangerous. The Iridonian in particular dangerous and bloodthirsty, much of the galaxy's population feared them. So far Bane had done his best to avoid drawing the attention of the Academy's most advanced student.

Apparently, that strategy was no longer an option. The rush of adrenaline he had felt when he ended Fohargh's life was fading, along with the sense of invincibility that had led to his dramatic exit. He wasn't exactly afraid as the Zabrak approached him, but he was wary nonetheless. In the dim torchlight of the temple, Sirak's pale yellow skin had took on a sickly hue.

It brought back memories of his first year working the mines on Apatros. A crew of about twenty had been trapped in a cave-in. Not all of them managed to survive the collapsing tunnel, but those that did survive escaped into a reinforced safety chamber dug out of the rock, but the fumes that were released in the collapse had seeped into their closure and killed them all before rescue teams could dig them out.

The complexion of their bloated corpses was the exact same color as Sirak's.

Slow, agonizing death.

Suffocation.

Bane shook his head, pushing the memory away.

"What do you want?" Bane finally asked.

"You know why I am here. Don't try to play the ignorant card. Fohargh."

"Was he a friend of yours?" Bane was genuinely confused.

With the exception of his fellow Zabrak, Sirak rarely mingled with the other students. Actually, he never mingled with any of the other students, just his entourage of Zabrak. Many of the accusations Fohargh had leveled at him, like preferential treatment from the Masters, could easily be applied to Sirak, as well. Perhaps Sirak had beaten down the Markuth to teach him his place.

"The fool was neither friend nor enemy. He was beneath my notice. You were beneath my notice. Until now."

Bane's only reply was a flinty, unblinking stare. The flickering torchlight reflecting off the Zabrak's pupils made it seem like flames licked away at his grasp of reality.

"You are interesting. You'd make an intriguing opponent." Sirak said, taking a step closer. "You are very Formidable...Compared to the other so-called apprentices here. I'm not sure if that is saying much, though. I am watching you now...

"I am waiting." He reached out slowly and pressed his finger into Bane's chest.

Bane had to fight the urge to take a step back.

"I do not issue challenges like the rest of these fools do. I have no need to prove myself to lesser opponents or anyone, for that matter." Flashing a cruel smile, Sirak lowered his finger and took a step back.

"When you fool yourself into believing you are ready, you will inevitably challenge me. It'll be a fatal mistake on your part, because I will break you...Nonetheless, I shall be looking forward to it."

With that he brushed past Bane on the narrow landing, bumping him slightly with his shoulder as if unaware of him, then continuing on down the stairs to the level below.

The message of that slight bump was not lost. He knew Sirak was trying to intimidate him. Provoke him. Goad him into a confrontation he wasn't ready for by any means.

Bane wasn't about to fall for the trap. He stood motionless at the top of the landing, refusing to turn and watch Sirak depart. Only when Sirak's presence and steps faded away. Only when he heard the sounds of the rest of the class descending from the roof did he move again, spinning on his heel and continuing down the stairs to the lower levels and the privacy of his own room.

* * *

Pegus straightened his spine in the pilot's chair, furrowing his brows as he studied the onscreen display. The automated systems that carried his vessel were also programmed to land in the first available location. Considering where they were-coming through Korriban's atmosphere, the deserts beneath them like a stain, the temple would be the first place they'd land.

Dissipating waves of Dark Side power danced around him. It was meek. It was mild, it was hardly tangible. There were many people on this planet, the distinct and powerful signatures in the Force were proof of that. The subtle permeation which just brushed the edge of his mind was the Dark Side that had always been a part of Korriban. The pinpoint flares throughout that haze were what was being caught in his peripherals.

"Bring it in for a landing." Syrus commented, seated beside the larger man.

"I'm already on it." Pegus said, punching a button, watching as the screen lit up with the words LANDING ZONES.

He stared at the readout, feeling the familiar bumps of turbulence. It must have been nearing night, or was night now on Korriban. The winds were always bad and the sand storms wee something close to a living nightmare.

Caught between curiosity and slight frustration, Pegus reached out and began to tap a series of buttons.

It chimed angrily, and he silenced it.

It began to ring, and with the Force he silenced it again-frying that particular circuit.

Pegus relaxed, sinking back into his seat and buckled up for the landing, saber already clasped in his hand. He peered over the console to get a better view through the cockpit window of where he was heading. All she could make out was kilometers of barren desert, but a small speck began to grow larger and larger, until its stone length was seen.

The temple.

Syrus roused from his light meditation, arms still crossed over his chest, he turned his head up by a fraction. "I wonder what Kaan's end game is."

Pegus snorted. "I don't think it matters."

Syrus made no visible reaction.

"He is going against the Old Sith."

Pegus looked mildly amused. Perhaps it was good to come back to the temple-they'd be spending time in the archives again reading through tomes and holocrons.

"I don't think it matters one way or another, we all have a mutual goal. Besides, Sith is what we've been called since Ajunta Pall and his followers arrived on Korriban, and other Sith worlds. Before that, they were merely Dark Jedi. We'd be Dark Jedi if it weren't for him."

"My point still stands."

"Kaan's endgame is to manipulate everyone to his whim, that's as simple as it gets. There's no ulterior motives or hidden agenda."

Satisfied that Syrus was staying silent now, Pegus clenched the yoke a bit harder as he began his final descent. The ship arced smoothly, once, completely in a half hemisphere before hovering down. A hiss of steam pierced through the desolate silence as the ship's engines came to a halt.

Both men unclipped their safety harnesses. With a quick jerk of his mind, Pegus flung the exit hatch open. As he descended the vessel's loading ramp, he took not that he was right in the middle of the temple's roof. The area just a few yards from him was covered in blood. Another area just a few feet away there was remnants of what seemed to be pink blood, or a foam of some sort. It reminded him of the liquid people would expel when they began to fight for air against his Force Choke.

Both Qordis and Kas'im were standing front and center. Judging from their postures their arrival wasn't as much of a mystery, as it was a nuisance. Truth be told they were needed in the war, not here. Kaan didn't seem to inform them, or at the very least, didn't give them the full details.

 _Let the games begin._ Syrus thought, walking up to the two older men.

Kas'im spoke first. There was anger clear in his expression. "Lord Syrus. Lord Pegus."

Syrus looked unimpressed. It was a miracle in of itself Kaan managed to rally so many to his cause-the man was good with words, but he wasn't the most intelligent. Kopecz and Qordis were both ceded power from Kaan himself, because the two were stronger than him. There weren't any disputes for power in the Brotherhood, that Sith tradition, along with the title of Darth, was made null.

Kaan didn't inform these two, and judging from Qordis's expression, that was a fact. They knew they were going to arrive, but Kaan didn't go any further than that.

"What happened here?" Pegus asked, growing impatient as he waved a hand at the pink filth.

"A...New apprentice." Kas'im offered a bit hesitantly.

Syrus closed his eyes and calmed his mind. He let the Force pull and twist around him.

"I suppose Sirak and his trio are here still. That's a shame since Qordis has been training Sirak for almost twenty years now."

Anger, would serve them best.

Pegus knocked his boot down sharply on the roof, tempted to just ram his foot right through the damnable place.

Lord Qordis was standing tall and straight so he could look down on the two men with his gray, sunken eyes.

"I got a transmission from Kaan. I know what happened yesterday morning. He tells me you both are responsible for many Republic and Jedi deaths." The tone of his voice gave nothing away.

"I was only doing what needed to be done. Nothing more." Syrus answered calmly. He was angry, but he wasn't trying to get into this now. He chose his next words very carefully.

"Kaan was a fool. We had those Republic fools about to retreat, but he cancelled the attack. Raskta and her force nearly took the planet! It was nothing but a display of weakness and folly, if I didn't take advantage of it, we'd be being mocked at this moment."

His statement was very true, so true it was strange. Kaan had the power of the Dark Side at his whim and he was trying to fight a war using war ships and common soldiers. A Force-talented opponent could yank a trained soldier right off of their feet, knock them off balance, or even extinguish their efforts without as much as a glance.

Kaan and the Dark Lords were living lives of luxury and prestige. They elevated themselves to status and riches. They were the royalty-common soldiers were but mere gnats to them. Admittedly, he was a part of the circle. He was a Dark Lord. But, he spent most of his time on the battlefield. Many of the apprentices have never experienced combat-even Sirak was sequestered to this temple.

"It is useless to crush mites. Victory was secured." Qordis countered. "He says you both simply ripped through them."

"I'm not going to hold back." Pegus snarled.

It was a jab.

One Qordis didn't even bother to answer.

"It is one thing to defeat an opponent. But even once they were retreating and getting airborne, you continued to attack them. They were beaten long before you two decided to chase them down. What you did was no different from striking with the blade against a helpless foe with no will to fight or limbs to fight with. Something that we frown upon..."

The words struck too close to home, dredging up the rage Pegus had tried to bury even as he had made his way to this meeting and was in the ethereal glow of light speed. Qordis was silent, waiting for Syrus's and Pegus's every reaction.

Pegus wasn't going to be muzzled. He wouldn't allow a man who holed himself up with jewels, hoping to gain strength from the envy of others, to belittle him for securing victory for the Brotherhood.

The Brotherhood, what a joke...

Kas'im knew what was happening.

He could see what implosion was about to happen.

Pegus and Syrus were always violent and blunt, but it served them well.

Still, it always felt like they were bearing their fangs against everyone else's throats.

There was enough dissent and infighting within the Brotherhood, not including these two.

"No matter. It was a decisive victory, Hoth has backed off on his crusade for now in the Sith Curtain and has returned to Corsucant. Lord Kaan wanted to see what would happen. He wanted to see how you would act in that situation. He wanted to see if you would be merciful. Ruthless. Strategic. Will you be satisfied with victory or take it a step further? Are you focused on the Brotherhood, or your own goals?"

Syrus realized he hadn't been called back to Korriban to be punished. He realized Pegus hadn't come back to Korriban to be punished. This was all just a misuse of power-Kaan and Qordis throwing their weight around. The only person missing was Kopecz, and that for the better. Syrus wasn't sure if the man would be inclined to listen to him or side with these two.

Considering he was needed on the battle lines, Kopecz would side with him and Pegus, but that'd lead to another argument.

"I don't understand." Syrus could barely keep his voice level. It was becoming frustrating just dealing with this people. "This is kriffing shit!"

Qordis crossed his arms. "We can't have you disobeying direct orders from Kaan, and the other Dark Lords. That include us. We want your hatred to be directed against the Jedi. Against the Republic. Not on us."

The words echoed the argument Syrus had been having with himself when he had be tempted to slice off Kaan's jaw. But what came next was something he hadn't anticipated.

"You both are going to be stationed here until further notice. You'll keep your title and rank. You will be able to leave, but we will have to permit it."

"Like Sirak?" Pegus asked, tone starting to rise.

The question seemed to amuse Qordis rather than offend him. "Sirak understands the power of the Dark Side."

"Sitting here in this temple while we're out engaged in battle. You make me sick." Pegus spat.

Syrus looked at Pegus, sharply shaking his head. He turned his focus onto the two older men, eyes starting to harden. "I wasn't expecting to see you both look so...Complacent. Who is this new apprentice? Is that his or her residual I am feeling? Oh, the pink froth, too. Someone must have been crushed to death."

Qordis didn't flinch. "Bane. Stay away from him."

* * *

The next morning Bane was not with the other students on the temple roof as they sparred. Lord Qordis wanted to speak with him. Privately. He strode through the empty halls of the Academy toward the meeting, his outward appearance calm and confident. Inside he was anything but.

All night, surrounded by the silence and darkness of his room, the duel had played itself over and over in his head. Free from the emotion of the battle, he knew he had gone too far. He had proven his dominance over Fohargh by pinning him with the Force. He ripped right through his defenses like a Rancor swatting away a fly.

He had achieved dun moch.

The Makurth would never dare to challenge him again. Yet for some reason Bane hadn't been able to stop there. He hadn't wanted to stop. At the time he had felt no guilt over his actions. No remorse. No sorrow. Yet once his blood cooled, once his anger subsided, once the rage wasn't coursing through his veins empowering him...Part of him couldn't help but feel he had done something wrong.

Had Fohargh really deserved to die?

He was a part of the Brotherhood.

But another part of him refused to accept the guilt. He'd had no love for the Makurth. No feelings at all. Fohargh had been nothing but an obstacle to Bane's progress. An obstacle that had been removed. Fohargh was just an obstacle altogether, and if he didn't take out the tusked moron when he did-most certainly he'd have to live watching his back every second.

He had given himself over to the Dark Side completely in that moment. It had been more than simple rage or bloodlust. It went deeper, to the very core of his being. He'd lost all reason and control...He lost his grip on reality...But it had felt right.

It was elating, to see that tusked vermin who used his own name against him, writhing and kicking on the ground. He had spent a long and sleepless night wrestling with the two emotions.

Triumph.

Remorse.

But, when the summons came that morning his inner conflict had been swept away by more immediate concerns.

A more immediate concern.

Fohargh's death would have serious repercussions. Combat was meant to test the apprentices, harden their mettle through struggle and pain. Improve their technique through experience. It wasn't meant to kill. Each and every disciple at the Academy, from Sirak down to the least and lowest of the students, had the ability to become a Master.

Each possessed an extremely rare gift in the Dark Side.

A gift that was meant to be used against the Jedi, not against one another.

In killing Fohargh, he thinned the ranks of potential Sith Masters. He had dealt a serious blow to the war effort. Each apprentice at the Academy was valued more highly than an entire division of Sith troopers. He had destroyed an invaluable tool. For that, Bane suspected, he would be punished severely.

As he marched toward the meeting that could decide his fate he tried to push both fear and guilt from his mind. Nothing he did now could bring Fohargh back. The Makurth was gone, but Bane was still here. And, he was a survivor. He had to be strong. He had to find some way to justify his actions to Lord Qordis. He was already putting together arguments.

Fohargh had been weak.

He hadn't just killed him.

He exposed him.

Qordis and the other Masters encouraged rivalry and dissension among their charges to the point of violence and ambusing. They understood the value of challenge and competition. Of rivalry and enmity. Those who showed promise-the individuals who elevated themselves above the others-were rewarded. They received one-on-one instruction with the Masters to reach their full potential.

Those who could not keep up were left behind. That was the way of the Dark Side.

Fohargh's death was no more than a natural extension of the Dark Side philosophy. His death was the ultimate failure-his own failure.

His pace quickened and he clenched his teeth in frustration. No wonder his emotions were so out of order. The teachings of the Academy were self-contradictory. The Dark Side didn't allow mercy, forgiveness, compassion... Yet the apprentices were expected to pull back once they had bested their opponents in the dueling ring.

It was unnatural.

He had reached the threshold of Qordis's door. He hesitated, briefly wavering, wondering fear what his punishment would be and anger at the impossible situation he and all the other apprentices were put in every day. They weren't Jedi-it wasn't a matter of just besting an opponent and bowing one head in a humble gesture. The fight had to be finished, swiftly. The foe dominated and beaten.

Anger, he finally decided, would serve him best.

He knocked sharply at the door, then opened it when the command to enter came from within.

Qordis was kneeling in the center of his chamber, deep in meditation. Bane had been in this room before, but he couldn't help but marvel at the extravagance. The walls were adorned with expensive tapestries and hangings. Golden braziers and censers burning heavy incense were scattered haphazardly about to provide a dim glow in the hazy air. In one corner was a large, luxuriant bed. In another was an intricately carved table of obsidian, a small chest atop it.

The lid of the chest was open, revealing the jewelry inside: necklaces and chains of precious metals, rings of gold and platinum encrusted with ostentatious gemstones. Qordis took great pains to surround himself with material goods and the trappings of wealth, and he took greater pains to make sure others noticed his opulence. On some level, Bane suspected, the Sith Lord derived pleasure-and power-from the covetous desire and greed his possessions inspired in others.

The trinkets held little interest for Bane, however. He was more impressed with the manuscripts and tomes that lined the bookshelves along the wall, each a magnificent volume clad in leather embossed with gold leaf. Many of the volumes were thousands of years old, and he knew they contained the secrets of the ancient Sith.

Lord Qordis rose to his feet, standing tall and straight so he could look down on his student.

"Bane..."

"Lord Qordis."

"Kas'im told me what happened yesterday morning during sparring." He said.

"You are responsible for Fohargh's death."

"I am not responsible for his death," Bane answered calmly. He was angry, but he wasn't stupid. He chose his next words very carefully; he wanted to convince Lord Qordis, not enrage him. "Fohargh was the one who let his guard down. He left himself vulnerable in the ring. It would have shown weakness not to take advantage of it."

His statement wasn't entirely factual, but it was close enough to the truth. One of the first lessons Kas'im taught students was how to build a protective shield around themselves in combat to prevent an enemy from using the Force against them. A Force-talented opponent could yank away your lightsaber, knock you off balance, or even extinguish your lightsaber's blade without the touch of a hand or weapon.

A Force-shield was the most basic, and most necessary, protection there was.

It had become instinctive for all the apprentices, almost second nature. As soon as the blade was drawn, the protective veil went up. Guarding against the Force powers of the enemy and obscuring your own intentions required as much concentration and energy as augmenting your physical prowess or anticipating the moves of your foe. It was that unseen part of combat, the invisible battle of wills, not the obvious interaction of bodies and blades, that more often than not decided the fate of a duel.

"Fohargh did not lower his guard." Qordis didn't even budge, almost like a statue. "You simply ripped through it. His defenses could not stand before your power."

"Master, are you saying I should hold back if my opponent is weak?"

"It is one thing to defeat an opponent in the ring. You were defeated, however. He struck your arm, and your face. You couldn't even wave the training blade. He was beaten long before you killed him. What you did was no different from striking with the blade against a fallen and unconscious foe. You prolonged the inevitable for your own enjoyment."

The words struck too close to home, dredging up the guilt Bane had tried to bury even as he had made his way to this meeting.

Qordis was silent, waiting for Bane's reaction.

Bane had to make some type of reply.

"Kas'im knew what was happening. He could see what I was doing. Why didn't he stop me? Why am I being punished?"

Qordis felt a wave of unease...

"Why not, indeed?" Qordis replied smoothly, not breaking his statue-like visage, despite the unease he felt. "Lord Kas'im wanted to see what would happen. He wanted to see how you would act in that situation. He wanted to see if you would be merciful. Or, if you would be strong."

Bane realized he hadn't been called into the Qordis's room to be punished.

"I thought it was forbidden to murder another apprentice."

Qordis nodded. "In theory. We cannot have the students attacking each other in the halls; we want your hatred to be directed against the Jedi, not one another. But, at the same time..."

The words echoed the argument Bane had been having with himself only minutes earlier. But what came next was something he hadn't anticipated.

"Despite this, Fohargh's death will turn out to be a minor loss if it helps you to achieve your full potential. Exceptions can be made for those who are strong in the Dark Side."

"Like Sirak?" Bane asked, the words out of his mouth before he even realized what he was saying.

"Passion fuels the dark side."

"Peace is a lie, there is only passion." Bane muttered out of habit. "Through passion, I gain strength."

"Exactly. Through strength, I gain power; through power, I gain victory."

"Through victory my chains are broken." Bane dutifully recited.

"Understand this-truly understand it-and your potential is limitless!"

Qordis gave a dismissive wave of his hand, then settled back onto his meditation mat as Bane turned to go.

At the door of the room, though, the young man paused and turned back.

"What is the Sith'ari?"

Qordis tilted his head. "Where did you hear that word?"

His voice was grave.

"I've heard some of the other students use it. About Sirak. They say he could be the Sith'ari."

"Some of the old texts speak of the Sith'ari." Qordis answered slowly, gesturing with a ring-laden claw at the books scattered about the room. "They say the Sith will one day be led by a perfect being, one who embodies the dark side and all we stand for."

"Sirak is this perfect being?"

Qordis shrugged. "Sirak is the strongest student at the Academy. Many of the Masters do not believe in the legend of the Sith'ari. Lord Kaan discounts it, for one. It goes against the philosophy underlying the Brotherhood of Darkness."

"What about you? Do you believe in the legend?"

Bane waited while Qordis considered his reply.

It felt like forever.

"These are dangerous questions to ask." the Dark Lord finally said. "But if the Sith'ari is more than a legend, he will not simply be born as the exemplar of all our teachings. He, she, or it, must be forged in the crucibles of trial and battle to attain such perfection. Some might argue such training is the purpose of this Academy, of course. But I would counter by insisting that we train our apprentices to join the ranks of the Sith Lords so they may stand alongside Kaan and the rest of the Brotherhood."

Realizing that was as good an answer as he was going to get, Bane nodded.

He still felt a need to ask another question.

"Who are the two that returned here?"

Qordis's sunken eyes almost, almost flared. Instead, they dimmed.

Bane nodded, knowing he wasn't going to get an answer. He had been absolved of his crime, given a pardon because of his power and potential.

He should have been relieved. Triumphant.

And, just how much a simple statement, by one of the more influential Dark Lords, made no sense.

 _He, she, or it, must be forged in the crucibles of trial and battle to attain such perfection. Some might argue such training is the purpose of this Academy, of course. But I would counter by insisting that we train our apprentices to join the ranks of the Sith Lords so they may stand alongside Kaan and the rest of the Brotherhood._

It made no sense. If Bane were to go off of this statement-the Gloom Walkers should be the most powerful. They were in the trenches, with jackasses for superiors on top of it. One of them he punched. The other he killed out of necessity. He had potential-he always did, but...

These Dark Lords were living in luxury, while the Gloom Walkers are in the trenches right now.

Was Qordis right to speak of potential and the Dark Side itself, when he wasn't engaging in battle?

Why did he get so quiet with his last question?

Bane shook the thoughts away.

All he could think about as he headed up to the roof to join the other students was the sticky gurgles of Fohargh's dying breaths.

The pink froth.


End file.
